


one word

by softnow



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Tumblr Prompts, aaall the good stuff, one word mini fics, some romance some steaminess some on-brand softness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-09-30 18:19:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17228864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softnow/pseuds/softnow
Summary: one-word mini fics from tumblr!





	1. flannel

She comes out of the bathroom in dark leggings and thick woolen socks and his shirt, the red flannel one the same shade as her hair. The same shade as her cheeks when he—

“Any word?” She jerks her head towards the TV currently playing the weather channel and drags a towel over her hair.

The screen is all purple and white. Snow and ice, and a lot of both.

“A day,” he says. “Maybe two.”

The motel heater is on full blast, but the room is still chilly. Scully frowns and hangs her towel over the back of one of the chairs by the window. She peaks through the curtains, and he takes a moment to appreciate the way his shirt hangs from her slim shoulders, the tails reaching almost to the backs of her knees.

He shoves himself up off the lumpy mattress and crosses to her, wrapping her in his arms and nuzzling his nose into her damp hair.

“See anything good?”

She hums and lets the curtains fall shut again, leaning back into his embrace. She’s warm through the thick flannel. He undoes one of the buttons over her navel and slips a hand inside.

“Just snow.” She tips her face to the side and rubs her nose against his neck, raising goosebumps. “Did you call Skinner?”

“Mm.” He kisses her eyebrow, the straight line of her nose, her cheek. “He wasn’t happy, but what can he do?”

The hand in her shirt dips down, his pinky inching under the waistband of her leggings. She’s so small. He can hold her from ribs to pelvis just like this.

“So we’re good then? For a day, maybe two?” Her voice sounds sleepy, but the subtle push of her ass against his hips is wide awake. 

“Oh, Agent Scully.” He squeezes her tight against him, slides his hand a little lower. “We’re  _so_  good.”


	2. ride

“ _Jesus._ ” His hands tighten around her hips, encouraging her rhythm. “Fuck, Scully, oh my god.”

His head tips back and the long expanse of his throat calls to her. She’s helpless, a moth caught in the lure of a flame. Bracing her hands on his sweat-slicked chest, she leans in, takes his Adam’s apple between her teeth.

The noise he makes is beyond comprehension; the jerk of his hips threatens to buck her off. She tightens her thighs around him and rides him out.


	3. stars

He finds the blouse tucked in the back of the drawer designated as his, a forgotten memento from a time when she didn’t have to share. He pulls it out and smiles, fingering the gold stars. One hundred and forty-seven, he remembers.

“What’s that?”

He looks up as she enters the bedroom, a laundry basket on her hip.

“This was in my drawer,” he says, holding it out to her.

Scully empties the basket on the bed, then comes around to stand in front of him.

“Oh,” she says. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t.” He shakes out the blouse, holding it up by the shoulders. He can still see her in it, with her big hair and bigger jacket. “I’d forgotten about it. You never wore it.”

“I did,” she says, taking it from him and folding it on the dresser. “Years ago.”

“After that, I mean.” He watches her smooth the wrinkles with her efficient doctor’s hands. “You never wore it after that.”

She shrugs. “So?”

She moves towards the bed, but he catches her by the hips, reeling her in for a little kiss.

“It looked good on you.” He pecks her again. “Try it on for me.”

“Mulder…” 

“Please.” Another peck. “C’mon.”

She leans back. Her eyes are narrowed, but her mouth is soft with amusement.

“You just want to see me take my shirt off,” she says.

He grins, slips his hands down to squeeze her ass. “An added bonus. You really did look beautiful in that blouse, Scully. I liked it a lot.”

She reaches up and ruffles his hair. “You never told me.”

His heart twists. He really was dumb. For the longest time, he was so dumb. 

He pulls her close again, molding the front of his body to the front of hers, and kisses her soundly.

“Well,” he says to the curve of her mouth. “I guess I’ll just have to make up for lost time.”


	4. rough

She’s going to be bruised to hell tomorrow. She’s going to be in turtlenecks for a week. She’s…she’s…she’s going to fucking come if he keeps this up.

His hips are drilling her into the mattress, his groin hot and heavy against the reddened handprints he left on her ass. Her cheek is smushed into the pillow, his fist in her hair holding her down.

She reaches around for him and he grabs her wrist, forces it to the bed. His sweat drips down her back, slicking her shoulder blades where they rub against his chest.

“Uh-uh,” he warns, and she can hear his smug fucking grin. Her clit throbs. “If you want it, you’re gonna take it. Be good.”

He slips almost all of the way out of her and slams back in. A broken sob escapes her lips. Her nerve endings burn. She aches with how badly she needs it.

“’S what you get,” he says to the curve of her shoulder, the points of his teeth against her skin. He sounds as drunk as she feels. “Teasing me all day. Fucking—tight—little—skirt.”

He punctuates each word with a harsh thrust, the fist in her hair tightening. Her eyes roll back in her head and she quakes around him. Just a little more. She needs just a little more.

“You— _ungh_ ,” she groans when he releases her wrist to reach under her, his fingers mercilessly tight around one over-sensitized nipple. “You liked it.”

“I liked it.” He laughs, a dark sound that makes her shiver. He tugs her head back just a little and nips at her throat before shoving her down. “I like  _this_. I like you taking this cock. S’it feel good, baby, huh? Does my big cock feel good?”

The sounds that pull from her throat—she’d be ashamed with anyone else.

“Yeah,” she pants. “Yeah— _yes_.”

The hand on her breast moves south and he pinches her clit between two fingers. She ripples against him, scrabbling for purchase in the sheets. One corner pulls free of the mattress, snapping up against her arm.

He pops her with his hips again, again, again. The wet sound between her legs is obscene. She moans and squeezes around him.

“ _Fuck_.” He bites her shoulder—hard. “You’re gonna fucking make me… You’re gonna make me fucking come, baby, s’that what you want? Want me to come in you? Want me to fill you up?”

It’s enough. His cock, his hands, the sting of burst capillaries in her neck, her ass, her inner thighs—and now this. She can’t help it. One more thrust, and she’s gone, crying and thrashing and open-mouthed drooling into the pillow. 

“ _Christ_ ,” he groans, and then he’s there, too. She can feel him pulsing within her. Filling her up. It makes her shudder all over again.

Finally, he collapses onto her, pinning her down. It’s a little hard to breathe, but she doesn’t mind. His heart hammers against her spine as he loosens his grip on her hair. He nuzzles against her and plants a row of sweet, soft kisses from her ear to her mouth.

“Scully,” he pants. “Baby.”

She turns just enough to kiss him back. He tastes like salt and sex, warm and tangy and hers.


	5. light

The painkillers wear off sometime before dawn, and he wakes groggy and disoriented. His shoulder throbs; his elbow feels sore and heavy from being held in the same position for too long.

The room is dark, curtains drawn tight against any potential slip of light, and for a moment, he has no idea where he is. Then he shifts, the mattress creaking under his back, the strap of his sling digging through his shirt, and he remembers. Home. His apartment. January 1, 2000. He was attacked by zombies. He kissed his partner.

Of the those two things, there is only one he can hardly believe.

The thought makes him smile and chuckle a little in the darkness. The chuckle sends pain stabbing through his arm, and he grimaces. Attacked by zombies. Injured. Right.

Carefully, one-handedly, grunting softly, he pushes himself out of bed. His head swims and he stands still until it stops. Somewhere, a dog barks.

Mulder fumbles his way through his shadowed bedroom and reaches for the doorknob with his right hand, habitual. A new flare of pain lights his arm up like a circuit board and he grits his teeth. He opens the door with his left hand.

The living room isn’t as dark as the bedroom. The curtains gape an inch or two, admitting a single stripe of yellow light from the street lamp outside. There’s a lump on the couch, bigger than the pillow and blanket he keeps there.

His brain is still foggy with sleep and the last vestiges of medication, and he startles, thinking  _zombie_ , thinking  _intruder_. His leg bumps the side table and something heavy wobbles, thumps to the floor.

The lump jerks upright on the couch, and in the dim glow, he recognizes that shock of red hair.

“Wha’sit?” Scully’s voice is syrup-thick. “Mulder? Y’okay?”

“What are you doing here?” he asks, then winces at how accusatory it sounds. “I mean, I thought you went home.”

His eyes have adjusted now; he can see her there, tangled in his heavy Navajo blanket, her hair mussed on one side from the pillow. Sh pushes it out of her face and sits up straighter.

“Mm-mm. You’re injured. I thought—in case you needed anything.” She blinks at him, Doctor Scully waking up. “What are  _you_  doing? You should be in bed?”

He shrugs with his good shoulder and points to the bad one. “Drugs wore off.”

She frowns and nods. “Go. I’ll bring you some.”

Before he can protest, she’s up, moving in her quick, smooth way towards the kitchen. Her stocking feet swish-swish across the floor.

“Hey,” she says over her shoulder as he enters behind her. She still hasn’t turned on a light, navigating from the cupboard to the pill bottle by the sink with practiced ease. “No. Bed.”

“It’s just a flesh wound, Doc, c’mon.”

He leans against the counter while she fills a water glass. She sets it beside him and hands him a small white pill, watches him closely as he takes it. He sticks his tongue out at her when he’s finished, lifting it this way and that. She turns away, and it’s too dark to be sure, but he thinks she’s blushing. 

“Well,” she says, already gliding back to the living room, to her heels and jacket beside the couch. He follows close behind. “If you’re alright, then I guess I should...”

She pauses. He pauses. Her hair is still messy, and here, in the one stripe of light, he can see faint sleep-creases on her cheek.

“Stay.” His voice is low, hardly a whisper. “It’s late. I’m injured.”

Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip. He knows the feel of that lip now. Softer than it looks. It looks so soft.

“Mulder...”

“It’s a new millennium.”

“Not yet.” Her voice, a whisper, too.

“Shh, Scully.” He reaches for her with his good arm and wishes he had two. Her jaw fits exactly perfectly in his palm. “Semantics.”

She licks her lip again. An invitation? It’s hard to tell. She deals best in the sub-sub-text. He’s still learning how to read her. He gives her an invitation instead.

“Come to bed.”

A nibble this time, just there on her lower lip. He wants to touch her teeth with the pad of his thumb. He touches her cheek instead.

“Mulder.”

“Just to sleep. It’s more comfortable than the couch.”

He watches her weigh his words.

“Just to sleep?”

He nods. “Just to sleep.”

What happens next is so brief, so soft, he wonders if it wasn’t just a trick of the light. She tips her face to the side and presses the gentlest of kisses to the pulse fluttering in his wrist.

“Okay,” she says.

He smiles. She smiles. He offers her his good hand, and she takes it in both of hers. Her fingers are small and cool and soft. She squeezes him once. He leads her to bed.


	6. barefoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sequel to [_light_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17228864/chapters/40555112).

He wakes to an empty bed. One arm aches; the other—the one that had pillowed a soft red head as they fell asleep—is not numb. He had been looking forward to the numbness. A new sensation. Proof in his deadened nerves that she had been here. That he had held her.

Now, though, his arm is fine and his bed is cold and a sharp mix of panic and disappointment lances through him. She left. Of course she left. He should have kissed her again. Or maybe he shouldn’t have kissed her at all.

He shifts higher on his pillow, wincing against the heavy throb in his shoulder, and something on his dresser catches his eye: her clothes, neatly folded, right where she left them. The tight coil of anxiety loosens. Unless she drove home in his boxer shorts and old Sunoco t-shirt, she’s still here. She’s still here.

He stands, noting with pleasure that he doesn’t feel as woozy anymore, and goes to the bathroom. The spare toothbrush beside his is wet, and the toothpaste tube has been carefully rolled from the bottom and recapped. He grins through a mouthful of minty foam. The year 2000 is shaping up to be mighty fine indeed.

Finished with his morning routine, he pauses only long enough to confirm that her clothes are still there, that she didn’t pull a runner on him while he tried to wash his face one-handed, before going in search of her. He finds her in the living room, and for a moment, all he can do is stare.

She stands in front of the window, her back to him, leaning against the desk. His blanket from the couch, the one he found her in last night, is now draped around her shoulders, shrouding her all of the way to the floor. Above it, her crinkled, curling hair is the only part of her he can see.

She is…the tiniest thing. He forgets sometimes. She takes up so much space in his brain and his life that he imagines her fifty feet tall, untouchable, his very own Irish Catholic Amazon.

He crosses the room before he can think about it, and if she hears him, she doesn’t show it. He stops behind her and wraps his good arm around her waist, pulling her back into him. She comes willingly.

“Good morning,” she says, hushed, like there’s someone else they could wake.

“G’morning,” he says. And then, because he can’t help himself, “You’re still here.”

She nods towards the window. “It snowed.”

Oh.

“Oh,” he says, disappointment winding up again in his belly.

Stupid, he thinks. She’s here. Does it really matter why?

(Yes, a quiet part of him answers. Yes, it really does.)

She turns slightly in his awkward embrace and, as if reading his mind, offers him a gentle smile. “And I wanted to be.”

He smiles back, dopey. She wanted to be.

Her cheeks color and she looks away, back to the window.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

“Great,” he says and permits himself one gentle nuzzle of his nose to her hair. She smells like sleep-sweat and sarsaparilla. He notices for the first time a mug of tea clutched in her hands.

“Do you want another pill?”

“Nah,” he says. “I’m good for now.”

He leans into her a little bit more, and she doesn’t stiffen when he rests his chin on her shoulder. A glance down shows him her little toes peeking out from the edge of the blanket. He could count on one hand, probably, all of the times he’s seen her barefoot. Her motel slippers are as ubiquitous as her shiny silk jammies. Something about her tiny pinky toes on his hardwood floor fills him with immense protectiveness. 

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

She’s quiet for a moment, like her hunger is something she has to gauge carefully and scientifically. “A little.”

“I have eggs,” he says, which, well. Might not be entirely true. But he’ll march through the snow, wounded arm and all, to get her eggs, if that’s what she wants.

“In a minute.” One of her hands, warm from her mug, finds his over her stomach. She threads their fingers together and gives him a little squeeze. Then, “I slept well.”

She says it quietly, furtively, like it’s a big secret that she’s only telling him because she trusts him very, very much. He grins.

“Oh, did you?”

“Mm.”

He nuzzles her again. Whispers, “I did, too.”

She looks back at him. It’s the same look she gave him last night, soft and unguarded, and he feels that same elemental tug.

“Hey, Scully.” He leans in, so close she begins to blur.

“Hmm?”

“I think I’m going to kiss you again, if that’s alright.”

Her eyes widen, and then she smiles—just a little, just the corners of her lips.

“Okay?” he asks, because he wants to be sure.

She nods once, a small dip of her chin. She whispers, “Okay.”

Their mouths meet softly, then firmer, firmer. Her tongue tastes like mint and herbs and the year 2000. She is his only resolution. It is a long, long time before they venture out for eggs.


End file.
